The Mysterious Case of Love, Murder and Magic
by Phoenix-Light3503
Summary: Sherlock Holmes: A self-proclaimed Sociopath, incapable of love or showing emotions. Harry Potter: A world-proclaimed Psychopath, incapable of hatred or hiding emotions. Two people who couldn't be more different, right? Anyway, their paths could never, ever cross, could they? Now see them, solving crimes together with Wason, Father and Son reunited. T-Safety I own nothing.
1. Chapter 1

"Are you ready to continue, Mr Potter?"

Sharp green orbs bore relentlessly into the eyes of his interviewer, cold and devoid of any visible emotion.

"Why wouldn't I be?"

He sounded genuinely curious, but his questioner knew better. He knew that his subject was a champion in the art of masking his true feelings. That had been the father's doing. And speaking of the father,

"You just found out that your father committed suicide, a few weeks after he was exposed as a…" He cleared his throat awkwardly. Obviously Potter picked up on his hesitation. His crisp voice showed his annoyance more than anything he'd seen before, and yet it was disguised as mild.

"As what, exactly?"

Emerald eyes continued to stare, and the nervous detective swallowed, trying to moisten his dry throat. He wasn't the one under interrogation here; why was he so much more nervous than his subject?

"As a fraud, Mr Potter. Richard Brook came forewa-"

"Richard Brook, Detective Inspector, died twenty years before your team of so-called 'professionals' created this mess!"

Here came the first unmasked flash of strong emotion, the first flash of anger, to emerge from the sixteen year old so much older than his tender years. The Detective, the only adult in the room and yet feeling oddly inferior, sighed.

"For one, Mr Potter, we're well aware, of your opinion of Mr Brook." His mind added another line: _God knows the papers were, too_. "And secondly, may I remind you that I want to find the truth just as much as you."

"And yet you ignore the ones handing it to you. Isn't that logic rather flawed, Lestrade? I don't wonder that Dad thought you stupid – you're proving it to me now!"

Lestrade sighed; clearly now was time for a new approach.

"Harry, how about we start again?"

The boy before him slipped into a languid slump, one arm hanging lower than the other, almost dusting the grey floor.  
"Must we?"

Lestrade blinked, wondering briefly if the child purposely emulated his father's lax standards of respect. Who was he kidding; of course he was!

"How about we start by you telling me this. How did you meet Sherlock Holmes?"

The day dawned slowly at Privet Drive, yet one resident of number 4 was already awake. Nightmares plagued this fourteen year old mind, leaving it with little sleep and even less peace. He lay on his second hand bed, feeling the lumps in the decrepit mattress prod at every bone in his thin body, staring at the yellow stains on the supposedly white ceiling. He savoured these moments, however unenjoyable they may seem. The quiet moments, when the only noise was his own quiet breaths and the only movement were his shivers - whether they be from biting cold or biting terror.

Today was the first day of the second week of summer, whatever the London weather might say, and the youngest inhabitant of 4 Privet Drive hated it with a burning passion. Why did he hate it? Why, his name was Harry Potter, the unlucky orphan bequeathed to Vernon and Petunia Dursley, who did all they could to change him. To 'fix' him. They reckoned the beatings and starvation and isolation could rid him of his freakishness, his differences - the one thing they truly could not stand. He was extraordinary, and totally unlike anything they knew how to deal with. He was a wizard, one of the most famous wizards to ever live in fact. The Boy-Who-Lived, son of Lily and James Potter.

The last person to see Cedric Diggory alive.

Of course, his relatives didn't know that. If they had, he held no delusions on what his fate would have been. They wouldn't have taken him back, wouldn't have risked their precious little Duddykins getting hurt. Or killed.

He wasn't actually the killer, not technically. (The fact that if he had stopped Cedric taking the cup - if he'd noticed that something was wrong - then Cedric would still be alive weighed heavily and permanently upon his mind.) That title belonged to the recently resurrected Lord Voldemort, a hollow shell that was once a man, who had murdered Harry's parents, Cedric, and countless others.

He couldn't really blame people for not wanting to believe him.

Not one soul believed him. It was easier for them to lay the blame at his feet, let him once again shoulder the burden that was the greatest mass murderer in the world. Even Ron and Hermione doubted his innocence. They didn't say, but he could tell. The disbelief shone bright in their eyes, and lay heavy in their voices. The Minister was denouncing him as crazy at this very moment, and the newspapers had thought him mad for a while now. He didn't deny it. He couldn't deny it. No one could live the life he did without losing most of their sanity. Mass murderers hunting him, friends abandoning him, newspapers abusing him… it was a mess.

He groaned as the day broke fully outside of his window. He knew it wasn't long now until the shrill voice of his Aunt Petunia (who was not as sweet as her name might suggest) began caterwauling outside the door, yelling for him to make breakfast for the zoo. Peering desperately at the damaged alarm clock, he wondered if he could make a break for it. Sure, he'd regret it later, but for now he wanted to be alone, far away from a yelling cousin, demanding uncle and frying pan brandishing aunt. Decision made, he began to make his plan. A plan which, contrary to popular belief, wasn't doomed to total failure because he thought of it. It was only usually his plans went to hell, thank you very much!

Out of the window would be the quickest option, but that had the downfall of, well, the fall. His grand escape wouldn't go well if he was to break his ankles upon landing. Next option was through the front door. But that would require passing every bedroom in the house, with a high chance of awakening the troll, so that was no use either.  
Aha!

Today was Saturday! He'd simply offer to go to the Post Office for Aunt Petunia. Dudley and Vernon were watching the match tonight, so she'd be willing to get him out of the house so that she could make the ridiculous amounts of food it took to satisfy the never satisfied.

It was midday before he had the chance to escape, but his plan came through. That was why he was sat on the swing in the park, with only his thoughts to accompany him, when a dirty rag was pressed roughly to his nose and mouth.

He awoke in a warehouse, his head pounding and wrists aching. A quick glance told him why - cords wrapped so tight they cut into tender flesh, and in such away that movement was excruciating, blood trickling out slowly and dropping, like the waste from a tap, onto the filthy ground below. He looked at himself, ignoring the growing stiffness in his neck, and catalogued no less than fourteen new gouges and three new bruises. The deeper cuts had been crudely dressed - obviously they didn't want him bleeding out. Where had the gouges come from? Catching a whiff of cheap cologne, he was assaulted by a vivid memory. He had woken briefly before this, and hadn't been too pleased at his surroundings. He smirked slightly at the echoing memory of his head smacking against his attacker, but then winced slightly, both at the vivid sound of bones snapping his mind supplied, and the pain a smirk caused. He supposed he should be more frightened, but he really was't. Perhaps after being abducted from Hogwarts - the safest place he'd ever known - by Voldemort meant that nothing, nothing in his entire life, could possibly be worse.

White noise blared into his ear and he started, emerald eyes darting round the room and checking for anyone entering. No one. His eyes continued to fly, before they landed on a screen. It remained dark for a moment before the unbearable noise in his ears ceased.

 _Welcome, Harry._

Said boy choked down a gasp. He wouldn't show surprise at the text on the screen, he wouldn't show weakness.

 _Brave one, aren't you._

He should be. He was a lion. He'd survived Voldemort, he could survive some small time kidnapper.

 _I need your help. I want to talk to your Daddy. We're playing a game, a game of hide and seek almost. I want to win, and you'll put me one up._

Harry blinked, before talking. He was fairly sure that he could be seen, and probably heard too. "You've got me mixed up with someone else. My parents died years ago. You've made a mistake."

 _No one's told you then? Tut tut. And they call me immoral. You don't even know how you were conceived._

Did this man think he was a fool?

"Of course I know. When a Mummy and a Daddy love each other _very_ much-"

 _Oh Harry, you poor ignorant fool. You don't know your parents._

"Well, of course not!" He fumed, "They're dead!"

 _Your mother may have died, I don't care. Her partner may have died with her. I still don't care. The man I care about is your real Daddy, who is very much alive. Speaking of…_

What? That was impossible. James was his dad! He had to be! Everyone said how much they looked alike, how much they acted alike. This had to be a mistake!

Right on cue, a phone besides him dialed. It was picked up almost immediately. A deep baritone voice came through, but Harry didn't listen to him insisting a painting he didn't know about was a fake. He was far more interested in the bright red light shining on his head, and the fact that such a monumental mistake had been made. Was he going to die here? On what was probably a case of mistaken identity?

 _Don't answer yet Harry, else we'll have to get rid of you, and that would be a shame. A bit different than my usual style, but you caused a bit of trouble when we tried to strap the bomb on. It's in the corner now. We'll set it off later if required._

Harry kept silent, his trembling breaths the only sound in the room. He wanted to cry, to scream, but he couldn't.

"It's a fake. That's why Woodbridge and Cairns were killed."

 _Don't talk yet Harry, let's surprise him._

He focussed on breathing, trying to stay calm.

"Oh, come on. Proving it's just the detail. The painting is a fake. I've solved it. I've figured it out. It's a fake! That's the answer. That's why they were killed."

 _Daddy's a bit impatient, isn't he! But he's not proved it yet, the naughty boy. Keep quiet Harry._

Harry scowled, this man was not his father! Really, it was amazing a criminal could make such mistakes and stay out of prison. But the screen was right about impatience, at least, he could hear the deep calming breath from over the phone.

"Okay, I'll prove it. Give me time. Will you give me time?"

 _Ok Harry, let's give him a shock. Say exactly what I tell you, else we'll shoot you._

He took a steadying breath, trying to ignore the voice in his head that told him that the screen could possibly be right. It couldn't be right, but he let his own tremulous voice ring through with the word dictated.

"Daddy?"

He heard the sharp intake of breath of the man over the phone, whilst muffled voices sounded in the background.

"It's a kid. Oh God, it's a kid!" He assumed that was someone official.

"What did he say?" He assumed that was someone who listened carefully to the words.

"Daddy." That was the quiet voice of…

 _Sherlock Holmes. My playmate, your Daddy. Now, you're going to say this. Exactly this._

He felt his breath hitch. Clearly Sherlock had sensed some form of truth, else he'd have been confused. It hadn't been confusion in his voice, only disbelief.

"Don't worry Daddy. I'll be ok. I won't hate you when - when," He felt his voice crack slightly, and a single hot tear ran down his skin. He swallowed, "When I'm dead."

Sherlock's voice was panicked, as several more panicked voices muttered confusedly in the background.

"No no NO! Listen very carefully, Harry. You are not dying today. I'll come fetch you myself when we've got this mess sorted."

He choked. It was true. James _wasn't_ his father! How could he be, when this stranger knew his name at the claim he was his son? He felt his heart and breathing speed up - this meant that something had gone on, something he knew nothing about! Either he was lied to, he was adopted, or (more likely)... His mother had betrayed his father.

 _Touching sentiment from Daddy there. Rather shown his hand though, hasn't he. Say this, it'll really get him working._

Harry's voice trembled and a second tear fell. He stopped thinking of his parents… his mum and her partner.

"Ten..."

He could imagine Sherlock's look of sudden panic, dropping the phone to the side and looking for clues.

The voice he assumed was the official sounded out.

"What did he say?"

"Ten!"

 _Carry on._

"Nine."

The low voice of Sherlock Holmes sounded.

"It's a countdown. He's giving me time."

Several expletives sounded, but only one voice sounded remotely calm, though it held a hidden tremor.

"The painting is a fake, but how can I prove it? How? How?"

"Eight… Don't worry Daddy."

Voice trembling on the final word, he tried to think of what had probably happened. Had James known? Or had he died trying to protect a child he thought was his own? He felt sick; would James have even tried to help if he'd known? He didn't want to think about it, didn't want to think of the lies and betrayals and the fact that _everything he'd known about his parents was a lie!_ Picturing the scene he could only hear, he imagined a figure rounding on the others, preferring it to the previous image.  
"This kid…" Here came a choked mix between laugh and sob, as if the speaker couldn't quite believe, "My son will die. Tell me why the painting is a fake. Tell me!"

 _He best be careful here, he's about to break the rules! Carry on._

"Seven …"

"No, shut up. Don't say anything. It only works if I figure it out."

 _Phewee, that was close, wasn't it!_

A small sound of relief escaped, and he strained his ears to hear what was going on. He could hear the pacing of one, probably a man, if the heavy footprints were anything to say.

"Must be possible. Must be staring me in the face."

Desperate. He was desperate. He couldn't help it. A rush of warmth engulfed him, despite the situation - he had a dad, and he cared. He felt sick again. This man couldn't be his dad. Biologically maybe, but really? No. He hadn't been there, hadn't held off a maniac to save his life. It was an insult to James to think of Holmes as anything close to his father. The warmth began to recede, and he felt glad.

 _You seem a bit relaxed, carry on._

"Six…"

The warmth was gone now, gone as if it had never existed.

"Come on." People were beginning to get frustrated now.

"Woodbridge knew, but how?"

"Five…"

"It's speeding up!"

"Sherlock."

Harry felt another tear fall. He was going to die. He was going to die. He was-

"Oh!"

"Four…"

"John, in the planetarium! You heard it too. Do you know? Do you know the name?"

Clearly this John didn't, as he heard no reply.

"Three…"

"What is it?"

There was a laugh, a laugh of pure relief. Harry felt his heart lift. Sherlock must have got it!

"This is beautiful!"

He heard the footsteps of his father approach the phone, and obeyed the command.

"Two…"

A furious voice sounded in the background, "Sherlock!"

"The Van Buren Supernova!"

There it was, the answer.

 _Oh, what a shame. He got it. Well, I suppose you can say what you want now. Bye!_

The screen flashed off and the target disappeared from his forehead.

He was ok.

"Please! Is somebody there? He's left me alone, you got it!"

He heard a relieved sigh over the speaker.

"Y-you took your sweet time about it."

There was a brief silence over the phone, before the deep laughter of Sherlock sounded through. He heard himself join in, and it took a moment for them to calm down.

"Jokes. Hysterics. You're in shock."

"So are you."

What was he doing? He was tied up in a warehouse, and instead of asking for help he was snarking back at the man who saved him! Joking with the man Lily had betrayed James for! He was definitely in shock.

Voices in the background started again. "Go find out where he is and then text me. I'm coming with you."

There was silence except for footsteps, but only for a moment.

"The Van Buren Supernova, so-called. Exploding star, only appeared in the sky in 1858."

"So how could it have been painted in the 1640s?"

"That was John, Harry, in case you're wondering. Dr John Watson, slightly less idiotic than the general population."

Laughing bemusedly - how were they holding a conversation like this? How were they ignoring the fact that Sherlock was his biological father? - he decided to play along with the facade of normality.  
"Pleased to meet… hear you, Dr Watson. Can you fix bleeding wrists? And other cuts? And bruises?"

"I'll... I'll give you a checkup when we find you."

Poor John. Harry couldn't help but pity the man, he sounded so confused. A whispered conversation was going on in the background, an argument. He couldn't hear it, he only caught the words 'father', 'shock', 'Sherlock' and 'fine'. A toneless voice came through the speaker.

"So," There was the sound of a throat being cleared. Harry didn't blame him for stalling. It wasn't exactly every day that father and son met via kidnapping. He didn't want to discuss it either. He was fairly sure he preferred the lie to this reality. His inheritances were truly awful - a crazy murderer off his parents, and a kidnapping off of Holmes - but he still preferred the lie. Mercifully, he heard someone yelling in the background, before Sherlock could say anything.

"We've found him!"

"Well Harry, we'll continue this when we've picked you up. John insists I 'clear the air'. Apparently that's what people do."

Harry could practically hear the sneer, but also genuine confusion. He stayed silent, settling in to wait.

Twenty minutes later, he could hear the door of the warehouse creak open.

"Bomb in the corner, disarmed but probably should still watch for that!" He yelled out. He wasn't too keen on being blown to smithereens.

"Bloody hell. Donavon, get the bomb squad on!"

A small team of officers entered first, one (he assumed Donavon) dialing on her phone.

"No need Lestrade, called them on the way here. They should be here soon."

Green eyes flew to the owner of the voice, the voice he recognised from the phone, as Donovan's face turned sour.

The first thing he noticed of Sherlock Holmes was his height. Merlin, he was incredibly tall. He gave the impression, however, of a gangly colt - in possession of height and long limbs that were easily trip hazards. But perhaps that was because he had the build of a stick insect. Judging by the sure footed steps taken, it was probably the stick insect resemblance. He wore a long blue trench coat and scarf - much too thick for the weather. Both articles, in fact, were shed soon after he entered, placed carefully on a table. Beneath those, he was clad in what looked like a silk shirt in purple, with black trousers. There was a frown on his pink lips, framed by high cheekbones and a crease between his ice blue eyes. Tousled brown hair sat upon his head, looking like the man had repeatedly ran his spidery hands through it.

Stood next to Sherlock was a man, whom he assumed to be Doctor Watson. Judging by the close proximity of him to the tall man, they held a close companionship, though the Doctor was older. He seemed far more ordinary than Sherlock too, wearing jeans, t shirt and much more sensible jacket than the trench coat. He was shorter too, shorter than average perhaps (though most likely everyone appeared shorter than average next to the giraffe-esque height of Holmes.) Moving his hand, a medical bag was clearly seen, and Harry relaxed slightly at the look of kindly concern in his eyes.

The odd pair approached him together as the others hung back. There was a brief flash of fury in the younger man's eyes as their gazes met, quickly hidden behind a porcelain mask of apathy and ennui. The Doctor crouched in front of him.

"My name is John, John Watson. Can you tell me where it hurts?"

"My wrists, mostly. The binds are tight… they had to restrain me."

He spotted Sherlock's mouth pull up at the corners before he ducked behind the chair to work at removing the binds. It was almost a look of… pride? Was he happy that Harry had been a pain? He ignored it, concentrating on the binds moving around his wrists. It took a moment before he felt them loosen, and he held them up for examination. He watched John bustle around, as Sherlock began to talk, pointing to a selection of people.

"Sally Donovan, Anderson - he's an idiot - Graham Lestr-"

"Greg!"

"Greg Lestrade, slightly more competent than most. John Watson, more competent than anyone in the force."

Sherlock grinned at him, but Harry kept his face stony. Confusion briefly marred the face of the tall man, but he carried on talking regardless.

"Sherlock Holmes, Consulting Detective. We'll just call your mother and get this done with."

Green eyes flashed darkly towards the icy blue ones that looked down to him. A blink, and then shock once again filled the pale face. His mouth formed a silent 'oh' of surprise and he shifted his weight till he leaned backwards.

Hadn't he known?

"How could you not know!?"

The question came out far harder, far more angrily than he meant it to. A porcelain mask had built itself onto the face of the Detective. Officers had turned to look, and John Watson had paused his medical examination to check on his friend.

"I- I don't know. I'm sorry. I'm so sorry."

Now people were really staring. Sherlock Holmes did _not_ stutter _._ Sherlock Holmes did _not_ apologise. Sherlock Holmes did _not_ speak in a voice choked with… sentiment, or look upon a face with a look of pure, real sorrow and regret.

Sherlock must have felt eyes upon him, for he cleared his throat and when he spoke again his tone was far more normal.

"I don't know why I wasn't informed of Lily's passing, nor why I failed to deduce it when I saw you."

Harry flinched slightly at the piercing look he was subject to.

"I suppose… James received the same fate."

Bristling at the resentment expressed in a name he treasured so, Harry had to retaliate. His voice was glacial, more hostile than he knew it was capable of being.

"My Father died buying my Mum time to save my life. He gave his life to try and save us, which begs the question; what on earth did Mum see in _you?_ "

"Is this really the time to discuss this? Perhaps after John's checked your wrists?"

Harry was vaguely aware of the silence that encompassed him and Sherlock. He was vaguely aware of the look the Detective sent to Doctor, a look that clearly said 'Help me!' He was vaguely aware of the fact that, really, Sherlock had a point. Now wasn't exactly the time to discuss, not with the police all around. Perhaps he should have waited for his emotions to calm, for his senses to clear. But as the blood roared in his ears, he knew that he wasn't waiting.

"No, actually, I think now is a great time to discuss. Seeing how you left me for fifteen years and will probably leave me again once you can drop me home, now is a great time to discuss!"

"I didn't choose to leave you."

He wasn't sure why, but the calm, sangfroid voice of the man he faced infuriated him.

"Of course you didn't," he scoffed. "This is the part where you declare you never wanted to leave and that Lily picked James so you only left to avoid ruining her life further, and I run into your arms declaring that my life will be fine now because I have a parent again."

"Perhaps you should sit down a moment."

He hadn't noticed he was standing.

"Don't act concerned, answer the bloody question: what did mum see in you?"

Silence.

He felt his anger dissipate slightly. Could Sherlock not see a single reason? No, this was not the time to feel sorry for him. He screwed up his rage tightly, holding onto to it for all he was worth.

"Tell me!"

A hurt look fluttered onto the pallid, pointed face of the man who stood admirably beneath a barrage of irritability, before it became blank.

"She saw a man to whom she was attracted, who was clearly attracted to her, and could hold a decent enough conversation. Therefore, the logical choice for a... companion whilst her husband was away."

John closed his eyes. Bit not good. This whole thing was a bit not good. In front of the force too… he was going to have to hide the gun again. Mrs Hudson was already upping the rent about the wall, they didn't need Sherlock to exacerbate the issue with more holes.

The-Boy-Who-Lived looked at the Detective, disbelief in his eyes. The Detective threw up his arms and turned to face his faithful blogger, desperate.

"Help me!"

"I can't!"

He tried again, his voice lowering and becoming more threatening (though everyone who knew the pair - most of all Sherlock - knew he'd never bring himself to do something to hurt his blogger). John barely reacted,

"I won't, Sherlock. Your mess, not mine."

An aggravated sigh, before he made an attempt to salvage it alone.

"Clearly that wasn't the best way to describe it."

"Obviously not."

Lestrade tried not to let his draw drop at the resemblance. Sally was already planning her resignation speech - she didn't think she could cope with a baby freak running around London.

"Am I given a retry?"

"No."

"Alright. Time to take you home then."

"I guess so."

Harry travelled in the police car. Sherlock followed in a cab with John. Both were silent passengers, receiving concerned glances from their equally mute companions.

Upon arrival, Lestrade and Sherlock took the ex-hostage up to the door, the gangly Detective knocking on the door.

Out came a red faced man, with a mustache that fairly bristled with his emotions. Right now it bristled in some form of smug anger, observing his nephew stood with an officer.

"Knew he was no good, just like his parents. What's he done? Criminal damage? Theft? Assault?"

"On the contrary, Mr Dursley, your nephew has just been released from the hands of a kidnapper."

That was Sherlock's low voice, and he didn't give Vernon a chance to reply before he continued.

"In fact, I don't think I'll be returning Harry to you. I'm not entirely convinced you're a fit guardian."

Dursley was turning red with every word.

"What the devil are you talking about?"

"You're in clothes of no poor quality, perfect fit despite your frankly dangerously large frame. Perfect teeth, though a frankly awful smile. Your house is well kept and expensive. Clearly you have the money for any necessities, yet your nephew hasn't even got a well fitting pair of jeans. The bags under Harry's eyes tell me he gets very little sleep. Whether that's down to you working him into the night, the poor bed you provide or the-"

He cut himself off, turning to mutter something in the good Doctors ear. John shook his head, looking resigned (he had long ago realised he would spend a good deal of his existence filling in the gaps of his flatmate's fractured knowledge of social customs and common decency.)

Sherlock made a note of his new knowledge (announcing in front of strangers that someone suffered from nightmares was a bit not good) and continued his torrent of deductions.

"Moving on, you clearly have the resources to feed everyone in your household easily enough, yet Harry exhibits signs of a distinct lack of food in his system. Do I need to continue?"

Throughout the downpour of criticisms, Vernon's face had taken on the remarkable qualities of a chameleon. Now though, it had decided on a very particular shade of puce, one exhibited only when the person was in a rather foul mood. Acting on an instinct - a protective instinct he only now knew he possessed and which infuriated him because it proved what he had always tried to deny, _he did care_ \- the world's only Consulting Detective unobtrusively moved himself to shield both the son who had rejected him and the blogger who refused to abandon him. Lestrade noticed the movement and realised with a jolt that Sherlock fully expected some form of risk. Harry was jerked from his place by a quick tug on his sleeve by the Detective Inspector, as Vernon began the attack Sherlock had anticipated.

"THERE IS NOT A CHANCE IN HELL I'M TAKING ABUSE FROM A COUPLE OF... FROM A COUPLE OF-"

"It would be wise, Mr Dursley, to end your sentence there. Neither myself or my companion Captain Watson are gay, but I will not hesitate to deal with you in the appropriate manner if I hear such terms as you were preparing to use within my presence."

Sherlock's voice was frigid, colder than any of the people around it had heard it be before. Sure, they'd seen him angry, but never livid. Never so furious that his very eyes clouded and hardened with a poisoned mist of rage. Never so furious that his lips disappeared into pale lines in an effort to restrain the deductions that came so effortlessly to mind and could so easily tear the man to a trembling mass on the cold hard floor.

Harry watched the Detective heave in a breath, as he stood by Lestrade. He'd never seen anyone stand up to his uncle like that… perhaps that was why Vernon seemed so pale. John glared at the walrus before him, his posture straighter than before.  
"Mr Dursley?"

He spoke calmly, but it was a terrifying calm. The calm before the storm. Sherlock gently removed something from his friend's back pocket, placing it in his own. A weapon? (Harry did notice the good Doctor's fist clenching and unclenching.)

Vernon nodded tightly upon hearing his name. John continued.

"My name, Mr Dursley, is Captain John Watson of the 5th Northumberland Fusiliers. I have met men twice the person you are. And, Mr Dursley, many of those men were gay. I would thank you to readjust your view hastily."

Pale as a sheet, Vernon opened his mouth to retaliate. The deductive genius sensed quickly that John would not endure much abuse without cracking - the main reason he had removed the gun. (He wasn't entirely sure how legal it was, and if John was to punch the man - not that anyone would complain - it probably wouldn't go down well if found on his person.) He decided to cut in before they came to blows, it'd probably be easier.

"I have little patience for idiots, Dursley. Come along John. Harry, you can stay with us until you want to move or…" He paused briefly, but covered it quickly, "You could stay permanently. Lestrade, do let me know if there are any updates." The detective began to walk away, pulling his blue coat tightly to his thin frame, flipping up the collar. The other two followed (Harry hesitating slightly before deciding that, actually, nothing could be worse than Vernon), pausing only when the Detective turned over his shoulder to give his closing statement.

"And Dursley? You should probably ask Petunia about the yoga instructor at Total Fitness." He flashed a cold smile, before striding down the path to catch the oncoming taxi.

Harry smiled slightly at the memory before hiding all emotions behind a blank mask, stowing his heart behind stone walls, rather than on his sleeve. He heard Lestrade's small sigh, and felt his resentment settle for a brief moment. He knew Lestrade had only been doing his job, was only doing his job now. And he clearly missed his father, seeing as how any resemblance he showed to his father elicited a sorrowful sigh. But Harry couldn't help but harbour a deep burning anger, and the police were the ones to blame. His father was gone. Gone! Like almost every other adult in his life, he'd left.

He watched Lestrade fidget, answering the question before it was asked.

"Yes, Detective Inspector, all of Dad's deductions seemed real. Were real. I'd very much like to return home now, John's waiting for me."

John hadn't been the same since the… the fall. Harry, he'd lost his father, but at least he hadn't watched. John… he'd lost his best friend, heard the shaking voice of a man usually so composed, watched the tumbling body of the fallen detective. Seen the mangled leftovers still dripping blood from the fresh wounds, leaving spotted stains on his always pristine suit. Harry couldn't imagine seeing that, that's why he didn't leave John alone for too long. It wasn't safe to leave a broken mind to it's own devices.

He left the room with his head high and back straight, making himself as dignified and superior as he could. Mycroft had taught him that; act like you're the best person in the room, soon everyone else will believe you too.

He passed a room containing Anderson and another Officer and grinned slightly at the raised voices he could. After the fall, the poor idiotic forensics specialist got guilty, decided to trawl through crimes and the like, searching for Sherlock, who (obviously) had to have faked his death. Clearly Anderson had decided to quit, pursue his new passion full time.

As he walked through the station, he soon came across a face he really didn't want to see.

"Sally."

"Harry."

Sally Donovan, the beginner of the end. She had begun the investigation into Sherlock Holmes, given Moriarty the opening he needed to invade the minds of everyone but the closest believers of the Consulting Detective, the ones who knew the truth. He hadn't forgiven her either. He didn't think he ever would.

"You been with Lestrade then?"

He sneered, the upper corner of his chapped lips curling upwards.

"Don't ask questions you know the answer to Sally. I don't ask you obvious questions. For example, I wouldn't ask you who've you got your claws into this time, when I can tell it was the janitor." He smirked, "From the state of your knees and the distinctive stench of that awful disinfectant they've got, you've either been doing the cleaning or doing the cleaner."

He looked her over again, peering at her dishevelled clothes and smudged red lipstick, his sneer growing more and more prominent as she coloured dramatically, finally bursting in her anger, "Why you little-"

"And my question is answered. Now, if you'll excuse me," He swept past her, putting his hands in the back pockets of his slightly rumpled trousers, "I need to get home."

Yes, Uncle Mycroft may have taught him how to intimidate them, but it was Dad who taught him how to ruin them.


	2. Chapter 2

Harry glanced round the corner, breathing quick and laboured from the chase. Clad in a black, warm jumper with the pockets stuffed with supplies for the job ahead. He'd fix the mess the police had made, he'd change the people's minds himself. He would repair the damage, make sure his father's legacy was one of real justice and inspiration, not fake accusations and an example of a cautionary tale. His hood fell over his head, only two emerald lamps shining out from under, glowing with exhilaration. Where was he now? Ah, St Barts, the scene of the fall. Perfect. Oh yes, this was perfect.

He crept round to the front, choosing the place closest to where it had happened. He could imagine it, a flashing ambulance delivering paramedics to late, a crowd already forming around the crumpled form swamped in blue trench coat. And now, here he was, ready to add his own piece to the tableau of his mind. He shook the can clutched in his hand, the same can Sherlock had used to paint his masterpiece (Mr Smiley upon the wall) and that the gang had reportedly used to paint symbols on the portraits in _The Blind Banker_. The noise of the aerosol relaxed him, and he grinned. He understood why people got a rush from this, but he wouldn't make a habit. This was business, strictly business.

He let his mind wander as he slunk to a new position on the building to repeat his task, the yellow paint blinding him, the brightest thing in the night, save for the stars in the sky. He looked up, staring at them, hating them for cursing him so. It was nice to blame someone for the pain that blighted his life. And the stars looked back at him, watching him complete another task.

Harry hadn't actually been to the flat yet, he'd tagged along with Sherlock as he flew back to the Yard, having received an urgent text on the way there. John had declined to come, telling Sherlock that:

"Someone should really have a look at Mycroft's case - it's a matter of national security!"

Sherlock had scoffed and mentioned something about the adorable sense of duty the poor toy soldier had. The Doctor hadn't seemed too upset, he'd borne it all with an eye roll and a declaration that he was an 'utter bastard'', though this was hastily apologised for and covered with an awkward clearing of the throat - clearly, John didn't wish to swear in front of a child.

Soon they were sat in an office, Lestrade and the Miss Wenceslas staring grimly at each other, the Consulting Detective resting his chin lightly on praying hands, the boy wizard sat awkwardly on the outside of the strange group.

Sherlock broke the oppressive silence first, his quiet, baritone voice reverberating in the ears of the others.

"You know, it's interesting. Bohemian stationery, an assassin named after a Prague legend, and you, Miss Wenceslas." Piercing blue eyes swept over the woman in question, before returning to look deep into the lagoons of her eyes. "This whole case has a distinctly Czech feeling about it. Is that where this leads?"

There was no reply, but she broke eye contact, becoming incredibly interested in the swirled pattern of dust her heeled shoes had painted upon the floor.

"What are we looking at, Inspector?"

"Well, um…" He hesitated, clearly not expected to be put on the spot. Harry could see the thoughts flash upon his face before disappearing into the abyss of his mind. "Criminal conspiracy, fraud, accessory after the fact at the very least. Kidnapping..." He decided, finally. He added, "The murder of the old woman, all the people in the flats…"

He was cut off from the list by the panicked voice of Wenceslas. Harry caught the smirk of the Consultant in the corner of his eye and realised that Sherlock had known exactly how to get the information out of her.

"I didn't know anything about that! All those things! Please believe me." She was staring at Lestrade, ignoring all others as if they were unimportant, irrelevant, non-existent. Sherlock, though, was certainly aware of the suspect and all of her movements, all of her thoughts. He nodded to the Detective Inspector, indicating that she was telling the truth. Miss Wenceslas didn't see the miniscule movement, continuing to talk.

"I just wanted my share – the thirty million."

Harry's mind boggled slightly at the amount. Thirty million? He could see why she would risk everything on the chance. Money was a powerful motivator, almost as powerful as love in this case.

"I found a little old man in Argentina." And here, of course, was the confession. "Genius. I mean, really: brushwork immaculate, could fool anyone."

Breaking through the words came Sherlock's sarcastic noise of agreement, and a brief look was spared to fly his way.

"Well, nearly anyone. But I didn't know how to go about convincing the world the picture was genuine. It was just an idea – a spark which he blew into a flame."

This caught the dark haired detective's ears, his sharp voice cutting through the air like a knife, asking for identity. A person.

"I don't know."

Lestrade's cynical laugh echoed, and Harry almost followed. What fool would work with a man they didn't even know the name of?

"It's true!" She was desperate to be believed now, desperate to have the more serious charges dropped. "I mean, it took a long time, but eventually I was put in touch with people... his people."

Harry looked around. Lestrade still looked sceptical, but Sherlock's eyes had focussed like a sniper's laser, aiming straight for her.

"Well, there was never any real contact; just messages... whispers."

Harry watched Sherlock carefully. He was the master detective, of course Harry would watch him most. It was certainly nothing to do with… anything else. The master detective in question seemed the same as ever, but the spark of interest in his eyes had been fanned into a roaring, burning blue flame. It was slightly manic, slightly scary, mostly exciting. He was leaning forward, his face close enough that the suspect would be able to see the glint in his eyes every time she answered with something interesting.

"And did those whispers have a name?"

Miss Wenceslas quailed slightly under the intensity of the gaze, looking first to Lestrade and then to Harry before she finally gave her answer.

"Moriarty."

Reactions to the name varied around the room. Miss Wenceslas, she looked afraid, terrified of the name she had divulged. Harry, he was clueless, he'd never heard the name before. Lestrade had only read the name once, on a certain blog entry that Sherlock despised. And Sherlock, he was the most interesting case. At the name he had slumped slowly into his chair, eyes reflecting a place far from where they were. Now, he raised his hands in a prayer position, resting them against his lips. The three others watched him, watched his cobalt eyes dart this way and that, following thoughts and memories only visible to him. And then, without warning, the thoughts ceased, his cupid bow lips spreading to show his teeth in a wide grin.

"Sherlock, who is Moriarty, exactly?"

A startled look - he'd been forgotten, not a surprise - before an answer.

"A mystery, Harry. Something new! Something that is decidedly not boring!" The detective bounced to his feet, grabbing his scarf. Lestrade, always more in touch than Sherlock with the mere mortals, added in his own tuppence.

"Look on John's blog, he's mentioned in a Study in Pink, he's Sherlock's... _fan_."

"A Study in Pink?"

In came the officer Harry knew as Sally Donovan, voicing the question in an incredulous fashion.

"I thought Freak had decreed it must never be mentioned again." Her lips quirked into a cruel smirk, "Something about the Solar System remaining inconsequential, no matter who thought otherwise?"

Harry's jaw dropped, "Do you not know about the Solar System?"

"Oh, for God's sake! What does it matter to me?" Sherlock asked with a small pout and long-suffering, annoyed voice. "I don't care if the Earth goes round the Sun, the Moon, or round the garden like a teddy bear. It doesn't affect the work to know that the Earth behaves with the Sun as Mycroft with cakes, therefore, _I don't care._ "

With a small huff, the Detective flounced out of the door, leaving the boy wizard to chase after him.

Harry smiled, both at the memory and his excellent (if he did say so himself) handiwork. It smiled at him, thanking him for his public service. Harry knew he'd be pleased, glad the name Sherlock Holmes would be unsullied by the time he was finished in his mission. One flash later, and he had a picture of his masterpiece stored on his phone. It was time to go.

He wandered away from the scene, stuffing his paint-stained hands deep in his pockets, walking to meet his contact.

"Any change sir?"

A female voice broke the silence of the night, and Harry's white teeth were visible in his smile.

"But of course, my dear. Dad always said to look out for you."

He pulled up the photo on his screen, showing it to her. A twenty exchanged hand and he walked on, giving a parting glance and final piece of advice.

"Spread the word, you know what to do. If it's done right, there's another tenner in it for anyone I find." And then he ran, laughing with shadows and racing with the breeze, the soundtrack to the night his own footsteps and blaring police sirens.

The next morning, a day that dawned bright with a cold sun, the remaining residents of 221b (who stayed only as Harry had refused to leave the old domain of his father) were sat together, chatting over cups of tea that had long since gone cold. Harry was simply glad for the company, not quite willing to be left alone with his traitorous mind. Ever since the Department of Mysteries - even though it finally revealed Voldemort to be alive and cleared his name - Sirius' gaunt, accusing face had haunted his mind almost as well as Sherlock's pale and miserable one did.

"...I reckon you'd like her, she's been a good friend. I should probably introduce you at some point."

Harry looked interested for a moment.

"Who's this? Maria?"

"Mary." There was a sad ghost of a smile on John's lips, proving he hadn't quite forgotten his flatmate - certainly not his habit of forgetting the names of the good Doctor's long line of partners and friends.

"Your planning on dating her then." Emerald eyes flicked twice over the small stature of the man before him, before a smile broke free. "I wish you luck at dinner tonight."

"How…? In fact, don't bother."

The wizard in training laughed slightly. He was his father's son, and it had been rather clear that John was planning a date tonight, what with the newly polished shoes and the lingering scent of the cologne he only wore for special occasions. Only John didn't have a girlfriend, so he was obviously planning to ask the special lady tonight. The only woman John had mentioned was Mary, so there was the answer. Simple, really. He wondered if Sherlock would have approved - both of his deductions and John's new girl. Mrs Hudson - who certainly wasn't the Housekeeper, Dears - came in with biscuits and tea, ready to watch crap telly with John, a ritual followed on the same evening each week. As the droning voice of the narrator filled his ears, Harry escaped to his thoughts, focusing on memories to thwart the onslaught of screams that echoed in his mind even now - Hermione's and Luna's and Ginny's and so many more mingling together - and to block the face of his godfather, dead because of his folly.

"Come on Harry!"

With a swish of the long navy trench coat he was off again, walking with hopelessly long strides that the following boy could only dream of matching. This seemed to occur to the sociopathic genius, who finally slowed, waiting for his estranged son to match his position. The tracks stretched out before them, air filled with the bustle and noise of workers. But workers held no interest for Sherlock Holmes, which meant they simply passed without the courtesy of even a second glance, the fleeting impressions of their faces blurring into one in Harry's memory.

"Mycroft gave me this case, amazingly it's at least a seven."

"So why'd you send John alone?"

A look fell upon him, a perfect path of vision from cold blue eyes trailing down hawk-like nose before landing upon his insignificant figure.

"Mycroft gave it me." He said finally, as if the simple sentence should have cleared it all up. It didn't, and with a sigh he continued. "I've been following, of course, in secret. Couldn't let my _dear_ brother discover I was working one of _his_ cases - he might expect me to take the boring ones."

"Is it really that important?"

A small huff. "Perhaps. Obviously, there's Mycroft and John worrying about foreign spies getting ahold of it, but I reckon that to someone else it's even more important than that."

"Oh?" Harry tried to remain aloof and cold, but the burning flame of his curiosity melted the ice he had intended to coat his words.

"I have a sneaking suspicion that Moriarty's game is to distract me."

"Game?" He questioned, incredulity colouring his words, shocked anyone could consider blowing up people and buildings, keeping hostages and leaving corpses, a game.

He didn't receive an answer, truly he hadn't expected one. They had reached the crouched figure of John Watson, who was muttering quietly to himself.

" Right, so, uh, Andrew West got on the train somewhere – or did he?" Sudden uncertainty flashed through the amateur's voice. "There's no ticket on the body. Then how did he end up here?"

There was an approving nod from the silent Detective, who studied every move of the Doctor, almost as if he was the case. The faithful blogger had fallen silent, his gaze moving up and down the tracks. They waited a few moments, before Sherlock grew impatient, calling out from behind, though he still sounded pleased.

"Points."

"Yes!" The voice of the jumper clad man sounded, and as he sprung to his feet to face them (with surprising speed for a man who had once possessed a psychosomatic limp), Harry realised that John really hadn't noticed them. He'd been sure that he'd have at least felt the two pairs of eyes bearing into his back.

An orotund voice sounded out, tinged with both amusement and pleasure.

"Knew you'd get there eventually, you do seem to be marginally improving. West wasn't killed here, that's why there's so little blood."

"How long have you been following me?" There was no annoyance in the tone, Harry noted. Was he good at hiding it? Or was he simply used to being followed. Did he expect Sherlock to leave him out of the loop?

"Since the start." Came the confession, not an ounce of regret to be traced. "You don't think I'd give up one a case like this just to spite my brother, do you?"

He'd begun to walk away.

"Come on. Got a bit of burglary to do."

And then he was gone, leaving the two mere mortals who tagged along to stare blankly at each other, the connection of mutual sympathy and confusion binding them together.

"Did he just say…?" Began the newcomer.

"Burglary." Came the breathless voice of the old timer, veteran both of war and Sherlock's London battlefield. With a shake of his head and bemused laugh, the blond man began to walk, motioning that Harry should follow.

"Can't let him go alone," came the explanation, "He'll get himself hurt. Strictly speaking, I really shouldn't be letting you come, but Mrs Hudson's out, and Sherlock wouldn't be pleased if I took you home anyway..." There was a pause as John wrestled with his conscious, "Just… don't get hit by anything. Rocks, bullets, bombs… Just be careful."

And with that, they ran to catch the crazy man who hatched the plan.

It didn't take long for the trio to be reunited, walking down the street to their target.

"The missile defence plans haven't left the country." Sherlock stated, his voice oozing confidence with every syllable. "Mycroft's people would have heard about it. Despite what people think, we do still have a secret service, despite how laughably obvious they are."

"Yeah," John added, much less confident than his younger but towering companion, "I've met them."

Sherlock continued, oblivious to an comment, or perhaps simply not deeming it an important enough contribution to warrant further discussion.

"Which means whoever stole the memory stick can't sell it or doesn't know what to do with it. And with plans like that, my money's on the latter." He paused, walking for a few moments silently before declaring their arrival.

Leading them down the drive of a quaint maisonette, Holmes trotted up the steps of the side of the building. 21A, announced the door. Harry and John hung back, redundant at this moment in time, watching the Consulting Detective play with his lost potential - that of a master criminal.

John's urgent doubts on the emptiness of the building were brushed aside like irritating gnats, and the door soon bent to the will of a young man and his wire, opening with a soft click.

"Jesus..." whispered John softly.

"Merlin…" whispered Harry, almost silently. No one heard him, so he avoided the questioning looks he knew would come if he neglected to guard his tongue better.

"Where are we?"

Sherlock, who had moved further along, thoroughly enjoying the chance to indulge in some of his more questionable urges, turned round with a grin.

"Oh, sorry, didn't I say? Joe Harrison's flat."

Harry decided now was a good time to remind people of his continued existence, and hopefully he would receive a filling in.

"Joe…?"

"Brother of West's fiance."

Apparently he wouldn't receive an explanation. Sherlock seemed satisfied to be looking at the sight through the window, and John seemed happy to simply stand there, an accessory to make the Detective look good (and occasionally fill a certain person in on social customs).

Sherlock had begun to speak again, the sound of his voice silencing any words and stilling any thoughts that had been in the room previously.

"He stole the memory stick; killed his prospective brother-in-law."

He had dropped to his knees, managing to remain dignified whilst crowding all his limbs in, peering at the edge of a window sill with a pocket magnifier. In a few moments the others had joined him, two extra heads over his bony shoulders, all eyes on the tiny spots of crimson on otherwise pristine paint.

"Why did he do it?" Asked Harry, having gathered enough to know that there had been a theft and murder, something the Detective seemed to enjoy far too much.

All three straightened as the front door was unlocked, Harry jumping in shock, John with military precision, Sherlock with dignified collectiveness, as if it was part of his plan. Perhaps it was.

"Let's ask him."

They crept to the landing, silent in their mission to keep their target from noticing his home had been infiltrated. John had reached to the back of his blue jeans, and Harry caught sight of a pistol's handle, though neither he or Sherlock commented on it (or it's legality). As the three stepped onto the landing, their steps in perfect sync with racing hearts, Joe was leaning his bike against the wall. At the sight of them, he raised it, aiming so it would take out both Harry and John. John's right hand was raised in an instant, pointing his weapon so it would incapacitate, but not kill. Sherlock, he had swept Harry out of the line of fire, his face a picture of apocalyptic anger, without even twitching his lips. It was his eyes that were furious, two cyan daggers stabbing through porcelain mask.

"Don't." Came the stern voice of John.

The bike was raised, but John shook his head, repeating the order. Flashing a glance between the gun and Sherlock, Joe sighed, frustrated and afraid. They went through to the living room, and Harry felt the golden flame of happiness born from his father's defense spark deep in stomach, flickering like a wax candle.

Not long later, the suspect was sat on the sofa, the Baker Street boys standing nearby. Harry had been placed on a dining room chair, with instructions to 'leave this to me and John, observe and learn.'

"It wasn't meant to…"

Sherlock looked briefly away, exasperated, perhaps, by the stupidity in the room.

"God," a shaking palm rubbed over his face. "What's Lucy gonna say? Jesus…"

"Why did you kill him?" Dear John Watson, so much more comforting, so much more likely to elicit a response.

"It was an accident."

Sherlock gave a rather undignified laugh, though privately Harry agreed. What were the odds of murder after theft being an accident?

"I swear it was." Desperate.

"But stealing the plans for the missile defence system wasn't an accident, was it." This was no question, it was a sternly worded statement from Sherlock, who perhaps did understand the gravity of the situation.

"I started dealing drugs. I mean, the bike thing's a great cover, right? I dunno - I dunno how it started, I just got out of my depth. I owed people thousands, serious people. Then at Westie's engagement, he starts talking about his job."

Harry looked at Sherlock, who's alert eyes seemed to have glazed over. He could tell what he was doing; his mind was supplying with the images to match the confession, giving him the final story.

There stood Joe and Westie, the normally careful Westie, drinking at a bar. A stag-do. The ridiculously drunk Westie showing off his job, the memory stick, waving it around as if it was a fan, oblivious to Joe's greedy eyes following its path, realising how rich it could make him.

Joe, pretending to help the plastered Westie into his jacket, a guise to slip the memory stick away.

A few days later, the furious Westie confronting Joe, knowing exactly what he had done. An argument that escalated into a scuffle. A scuffle that escalated into a death, Westie tumbling down the stairs from Joe's aggravated shove, landing heavily at the bottom.

A prone body lying in the living room, with an anguished killer pacing beside it. The train's squealing brakes audible outside, and the light of an idea glinting in regretful eyes. A body now on the roof, the cold wind biting both the corpse and the man who made it, as the dead man was discourteously dragged over the roof and lay to rest upon the curved roof of the train...

"Carrying Andrew West way away from here. His body would have gone on for ages if the train hadn't met a stretch of track that curved." Sherlock's voice broke through, splitting any mind's reenactment of the screen rudely in two.

"And points."

"Exactly." Sherlock gave a slight grin to the small man beside him, before readjusting his face to glare at Joe. He didn't like him - how dare he threaten Sherlock's Blogger _and_ Sherlock's son, at the same time!

"D'you still have it then? The memory stick?"

An affirmative nod to the Doctor.

"Fetch it for me - if you wouldn't mind."

A sigh at the Detective's falsified manners. As he left, Sherlock moved closer to the two people he - however much he may deny it - cared for.

"Distraction over, the game continues."

"Well, maybe that's over, too. We've heard nothing from the bomber." Came Watson's optimistic reply.

"Five pips, remember, John?" Came Sherlock's realistic reply. "It's a countdown, and we've only had four."

With a start, Harry's mind returned to Baker Street. Mrs Hudson was gone, and John was looking at him with a concerned gaze. Clearly he had been lost in the maze of memories for far longer than it had seemed, longer than Mrs Hudson had spent there, and how long had John been waiting for him to come back?

"I was reminiscing. I got lost in there." He offered as an excuse, and John nodded slightly, that same melancholy smile plastered on the face made older by grief. Could John tell what he had been thinking of; the first case he had been with them? Or could he see Sherlock's influence on him, long periods spent in silence, one in the world of crap telly and Doctor's appointments, the other of Deductions and his own thoughts.

John excused himself, preparing himself for a meal with Mary. As he walked to the stairs, Harry noticed something, something that brought an uncomfortable lump to his throat and sickness in his stomach.

A limp.

Sherlock had warned him about this through the Homeless Network. He had received a message, not three weeks after Sherlock's death, a crumpled note in return for five pounds.

 _Keep an eye on my Blogger, Harry. If he limps, get rid of it. It's dangerous. Ask Mycroft to help if necessary, I've a few favours you can use._

 _-SH_

His Blogger, of course, was John. It? That referred to the gun, the metal hunk that stayed locked in a drawer, the monstrosity Sherlock feared John would turn upon himself if left alone to return to the same state in which Sherlock had found him. Harry had only heard it described to him; a shell of a man discharged from the army, plagued with a psychosomatic limp, visiting a rather poor therapist and in possession of a quite possibly illegal firearm, which he had obviously thought of using on himself. Sherlock had thought that the return of the limp he had cured would be a sign, a sign of deteriorating spirit and psyche, and perhaps of impending danger. Harry could see the logic, but really didn't want to carry it out. He was afraid, afraid to even think of what would happen if John… if John tried to follow Sherlock. They would have to explain it all - if he lived - and it would destroy him. He'd never forgive any of them. He shivered slightly at the thought and clutched at the phone on the table.

"Uncle Mikey? I need a favour…"


End file.
